Ice

late July
the monsoon season well underway
thunder and rain

and what I miss is
the icy air
the long slow shiver of the brown leaves
as they fall on the edge of a chill October wind

the heft of the rimed pumpkin
and clouds too thin to hold still
for the sun

I am hungry for the scent of winter
for the crystals that cling to the breath

for slicing ice under skate blades
the sharp burn of a shovel on a snow-swept street

for a stark world yearning for spring

Artifical Boundaries

Post today at Southern Arizona Baha'i Library

Conductor and composer Eric Whitacre conducts three virtual choirs via the internet, revealing the power of music to connect the hearts of human beings around the world in a single language.

Poet Robert Hayden on a postage stamp -- as one of the most admired poets of the 20th century. A religious man, he believed in the unity of humankind.

If this ain't fiction, it must be true.

Anthropology

What the exile said:
The horses of the people of the shadow sphere are subtle and strange. We see them sometimes slipping behind the clouds or rising with the moon like companion stars. Sometimes they are on the desert, stirring the dust like the horses of the light sphere. But they are not shaped like our horses. In shape, they are more like the mushrooms that grow in the forest. And inside, instead of seeds, there are the Salixeum.

What the daughter said:
You are one of the people who digs in the ground. Have you found the bones and the houses of my mothers? Have you found the vessels that held the oils and flours and seeds that fed them and their children? Are you looking for weapons? You will not find them here. The weapons of women are wisdom, which cannot be seen, and life, which is gone into the shadow. You diggers. You find nothing and think it tells you something. You desecrate the ground with your feet. I will not help you.

What the origamist said:
The cranes and aerialists are employed in folding the buildings. Soon we will live without mortar, without concrete or nails. When we fold ourselves, we will have no need of bones, we will have no need of sinews or muscle.

What the soldier said:
What war, brother? Your face tells me. Your eyes tell me that things got lost and this is why you are seeking to know what I know. But I see as you do, everything everywhere invisible. "What war, brother?" is our greeting. I know the war. It is the same one, though across a different battery of weapons, bodies, and blood. It is the same war, but time moves us forward. There are brief moments of peace and then we are called up to defend our graves. Those who call for war do like the sound of their own voices calling for death. But you and I, brother, we have no voices. Never have we had them except to greet one another with the old greeting, "what war, brother? What war have you survived?"

What the artist said:
I have said that I have a gift for writing. But I think the real gift is the gift of seeing. One can choose to see or not. I think it only takes practice. And the will to accept what is actually there.

What the old woman said:
When the fire starts, I am desperate for water, I aim the swift blades of a small fan right at my face, I want to burst out of my skin and lie in the frozen air of an asteroid.

What the holy one said:
All creation either rises or falls. Nothing is still. Nothing is static. For humans, to fall is to resist rising, because God draws us to him like a magnet draws iron. We must actively resist Him if we do not want to rise, and to do so is folly, for none can resist Him. He is the Creator. We are only the clay.